Opening Night
by dorian dark
Summary: Sirius is seized with a mad compulsion to play the Demon King in the school panto: cue sequins, fake moustaches and a first kiss involving a bit too much purple glitter...RLSB pointless fluff ONESHOT


AN: This is POINTLESS. I don't even know what made me think of it…God knows what goes on in my little mind. To be honest, there's not even any real reference to magic in it, so maybe I should label it AU. Ah well, at least it's not laden with teenage angst and doom etc…which is a great departure for me, you may be assured. I've even tried my hand at a touch or two of humour…you might need a magnifying glass to find them, but they were funny in my head. This is what comes of listening to too much German pop music, really…hab dich lieb, dd xxx

Disclaimer: Remus and Sirius are not mine. So now you know.

**Opening night**

It was to be Marlon Thames, initially, but he stormed out of rehearsals after one week, throwing the shimmering cape on the floor at Professor Flitwick's feet, and exited as only a Slytherin can, grumbling that he hadn't wanted to be in a stupid Muggle pantomime _anyway._

I was more than a little shocked to see Sirius' name on the new audition list – not much of a one for putting major effort into anything related to school, our Padfoot. But there he was nevertheless, pacing up and down in his Pink Floyd boxers in the dormitory, muttering _Hamlet _under his breath, me watching from the edge of my bed, chewing anxiously at a finger-nail and reading a novel Peter was currently ploughing through. It seemed to involve a lot of heaving bosoms and Arab sheikhs. I didn't really like to ask, somehow…

I remember thinking, with the pragmatism that more or less defines me 'it's only a bloody pantomime…' but for some reason this was important to Sirius, more so than ever more inventive ways to disguise the board cleaner or increasingly obscene verses for James to quote at Lily.

So of course, having about as much backbone as a blackcurrant jelly, I went along with the whole scheme (one which I am sorely tempted to deem 'ill-fated').

Remus Lupin, Assistant Wardrobe Manager and Attendant # 3. It must be official. I have finally slid into a quagmire of insanity. I ask myself, have I taken leave of my rather befuddled senses? Me, _me, _performing, involving myself in a world of exhibitions and prancing actors? Wonders will never cease.

But there you go. People often surprise you. And I sure as hell have surpassed myself now.

Nevertheless, with a mind like mine, there is always an upside. It's hard to live life with a rather nasty affliction and a family that treats you like chipped, dusty glass, without developing a bit of a knack for ignoring the bad bits. Casting them off, and raising your glass (half-full) to the opportunities proffered by superficially bleak happenstances. Or, as Sirius is wont to say, flicking the Vs when the bastards try to grind you down.

So, for instance, when I was old enough to realise why my mind turned into something inhuman and feral once a month, I gradually began to think things, whilst chained to the wall of my bare little cellar, waiting patiently, such as _it's only once every 30 nights _and _just think how much less complicated life is as a dumb animal._

And, another example, when I suddenly felt Lily pull me from my piano stool and kiss me, something wonderful that I never ever invited, and the moment was over and guilt was overtaking me, at least I could think _well, I didn't ask for that. And that seems to be all she's ever going to do. James will have no reason to tear my limbs off._

And another - I may have to wade through swathes of rustling, embroidered material searching for retractable daggers and the really fine brushes for the Duke's moustache, and trail after excitable second-year chorus girls who have left glittery pumps in the box strictly for Tiaras, Wands and Masks. I mean, _really, _it's not like it's not labelled. How difficult can it be?

Hm…I digress. So, the point is, it may be a right load of aggro, this job I have accidentally landed myself with, but there are at least two positives resulting from it…firstly, that the Chief Wardrobe Manager is Sue Paris, who is actually quite a laugh and likes to dress up in the huge clown trousers from last year's production just to see me smile.

And secondly (because I believe in saving the best 'til last), I get to see Sirius Black struggling into a turquoise and black sequinned catsuit. Not the most orthodox of sentences, that last one. So it wouldn't hurt to continue, about the silver feathers threaded into his hair, and the afore-mentioned shimmering cloak, edged in fur, that looks so much better on Sirius than Marlon Thames.

It is usually a relaxed ritual…I watch transfixed, occasionally fastening buttons and zips and passing masks and combs to the god before me.

But tonight…tonight is Opening Night, and the whole backstage area is _full_ of panicking, hysterical students muttering lines like curses or running up and down scales while Deputy Assistant Wardrobe Managers and Stage Managers of all shapes and sizes bustle through the haze of cosmetic powder with misplaced corsets and wigs.

Stupid careless people keep catching my arm and saying 'Remus, have you seen the signet ring for Act 2 Scene 5?' or 'You know after the big cabaret song thing, do I enter from stage left?' or 'Remus, you did check that the fake blood sachet was put in my breast pocket, didn't you?' and of course I think to myself 'watch it, buster, or it won't be _fake _blood staining that shirt at the end of the first half…' which is really quite a clichéd thing to think…but _honestly, _I have better things to be doing than locating false beards and prompt scripts.

By the time they have all more or less stopped pissing about, Sirius is almost dressed, and I am a little hurt that he managed it quite without my help. I take a sip of coffee, that somehow manages to taste of the chemical acridity of facepaint, and hand him his spry little pumps. Ha, what a _fairy_. I wish madly that Flitwick had insisted on the wings. I'm sure I could have bent them back into shape, Marlon didn't mangle them _that _badly.

He perches on the corner of the dressing table, waiting expectantly. I move towards him, considering every line and contour of his face. Aim, and strike…

'Man, that's cold, you bitch. Why don't you use _warm_ water?'

'Your call is in exactly five and a half minutes, I don't have time to pamper divas, thank you. You did pick up those juggling rings, didn't you? It won't be _me_ embarrassed if you're stood there like a lemon after the whole "Demon King extraordinaire" speech, will it? Hm?'

'Watch where you're pointing that bloody brush, Moony. You'll make my Cleopatra flicks all uneven.'

'I'd like to see you do any better. Now hold still, for Merlin's sake. Stop fiddling with that blessed choker. It's perfectly fine how it is.'

'Do you always have to use that blue colour?'

'Aaagh…yes I _do_, it goes with your costume and it's not blue, its _tur_quoise.'

'Well, I'm sor_ry.'_

'Should be.'

We continue in silence for a while, the rattle of the brush as I wash it in an old paint pot the only sound. The wet makeup glistens in the half-light, and I start on his mouth.

'How 'bout that purply colour, right there?'

'I _told _you, Sue said Flitwick said you have to have turquoise. Anyway, it looks good, take a peek…'

'I didn't mean for _me._ Eh? Go _on…_'

'Shut up, Sirius.'

'Whatever.'

'Don't raise your effing eyebrow at me either. Man, look, we've only got three minutes left now.'

'Hm…bet you I could make you look like a god.'

'Aren't I one already?'

'C'mere, forget that lipliner, I'll only lick it off in the first song anyway.'

'_Pad_foot, really, stop messing about…another time.'

'Nope! You shall not escape the wrath of the terrible Demon King.'

'I _know _I'm going to regret this…'

Again, silence, with our roles reversed. I find the edge of the table incredibly uncomfortable, and feel a twinge of guilt for snapping constantly at Sirius when he fidgets.

'There.' He sighs contentedly and holds up the mirror which by rights should be on the other side of the stage ready for the transformation scene in act 3.

'Very nice. Now, come _on, _get on stage, you haven't even got those feathers tied in properly.'

'Na…Moony, did you look at yourself?'

'I know what I look like, and noone's going to be looking at # 3 Attendant anyway.'

'Moony, _look.'_

'Please Sirius, Sue'll be having a cow.'

'But Moony, look…you're _beautiful.'_

I am silent, looking at my reflection, looking at the many pots of makeup, organised into rows…Male Base, Female Base, Aging Brown, Urchin Dirt…anything but at him. I'd rather not see his impish grin, see that he was only joking.

But he is tugging at my arm, as Dom pops his head round the partition and whispers 'forty-five seconds', and we are waiting in the wings, me poring over my script, a hand on his back, ready to push him on at the right moment.

Then, blissfully, there are lips on mine, and the taste of powder and Male Lip Scarlet, and my forearms are gripped so tightly by gloved hands, and my eyes are wide open and staring through purple glitter. The script drops to the floor just as the orchestra rises to a crescendo in the awful syrupy 'As If By Magic'.

Muffled, far-off, I hear a familiar line… '…but Father, surely you _know _it is folly to venture behind the waterfall after dusk?'

I push him blindly away, into the bright lights, and watch him with blurred eyes trip merrily through his wicked song, and juggle those hoops with such confident aplomb that I want to break into applause before he has even enveloped the heroine in his cloak and cackled like Sinistra after a few glasses of port.

He seems to have even more energy and life about him than before, and a strange smile dances on his face. I can see, from the wings, a sea of faces, shadowed by the dimmed house lights, enraptured by Sirius.

I know the script practically off by heart, I have seen it so many times in rehearsal. So I return to my little cubby-hole, drain my coffee, wipe the gluey makeup from my eyelids, and throw away the detritus of cotton buds and tissues and fallen sequins.

The backstage is deserted, the cast are onstage for the major scene at the palace, and a humming quiet pervades.

'What are _you _grinning at, Remus Lupin?'

I start. Sue, wearing her Costume Manager black casual t-shirt, staring at me quizzically, half-amused.

'Oh, nothing,' I say, returning to work with my face glowing red. 'Just got caught up in the drama of the moment, I guess.'

There is a wild storm of applause from what seems like miles away.

AN: Remus _is _beautiful, isn't he? And I can so imagine Flitwick directing the school play…but then again, who can account for my rather warped brain? Reviews would be nice, I must confess… dd xxx


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